


As Seen on TV

by withthekeyisking



Series: Sladick Fics [19]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Anal Fingering, Blackmail, Blow Jobs, Creepy Slade Wilson, Day 6, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Exhibitionism, Extremely Dubious Consent, Humiliation kink, M/M, Manipulative Slade Wilson, No editing we die like mne, Open Ending, Praise Kink, Principal Slade Wilson, SladeRobin Week, SladeRobin Week 2019, Spanking, Student Dick Grayson, Verbal Humiliation, Young Dick Grayson, authority kink, implied possible daddy kink, ish?, no capes AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-05 19:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21213800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Dick Grayson has always been a model student.The day that stops being true, Principal Slade Wilson can't resist taking advantage.





	As Seen on TV

**Author's Note:**

> SladeRobin Week 2019 Day 6: **Caught on Camera** | Forced Partnership

_"Mr. Wilson? Dick Grayson is here to see you."_

Slade takes a moment to smile to himself, quietly excited for what's to come, and then he leans forward to push the intercom button on his phone, through which his secretary just contacted him.

"Thank you, Amelia. You can send him in."

There are a few seconds' pause, and then his office door is being nudged open, a head of black hair peeking inside.

"Richard, come in," Slade greets, leaning back in his chair and folding his legs underneath his desk.

The teenager does as requested, opening the door all the way and entering the office, shutting the door behind him. As he walks closer, Slade takes the opportunity to examine him.

The boy doesn't look nervous, not like most students do when they get called to the principal's office, but Slade supposes that's understandable; Dick Grayson is, on all accounts, a model student, and doesn't really have anything to fear from a visit such as this. Never a grade below a B, captain of the soccer team, peer mentor, beloved by all his teachers—Grayson might be _confused_ about why he was called to the office, but he isn't _concerned._

Slade is looking forward to remedying that.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Wilson?" Grayson asks, standing in front of the desk, and then when Slade gestures towards the chair across from him, he sits.

He truly is beautiful, Slade notes. His cheeks are still slightly rounded with the remains of baby fat, but his cheekbones are becoming sharper and more defined with every day. His bright blue eyes, wide with curiosity, are a startling (and appealing) contrast to his tanned skin. And his features...well, there's really no other word than _beautiful._ It's no mystery why so many girls—_and_ boys—become enamored with the sixteen-year-old sitting in front of him.

"Yes," Slade agrees, dipping his chin in a small nod. "I wished to discuss something with you. Something of a..._delicate_ nature."

Grayson's brow furrows in confusion. It's a little adorable. "What do you mean?"

Slade doesn't reply, taking his time to open a drawer of his desk, pulling out a small remote. He aims it at the TV off the side, placed where both he and the kid could easily view what's about to be on the screen, and clicks play.

"Watch," he instructs in the few seconds while the video loads, and Grayson does as he's told, his head tilting to look at the TV, even as his confusion becomes more and more prevalent.

Then, in an instant, the confusion melts away and horror takes its place.

The videotape is from a security camera recently put up near the bleachers by the soccer and football fields. It was installed at the request of some uptight parents who claimed that kids were dealing drugs or some other such nonsense back there, and they wanted proof.

There are no kids dealing drugs on the video. But there _are_ two boys doing something they certainly shouldn't be doing.

On the screen, the Dick Grayson of one day ago is locked in a passionate embrace with his team member Roy Harper, a student Slade would certainly never refer to as _model._ Harper, to his credit, looks absolutely ecstatic to be there with Grayson, pulling the black-haired boy tightly against himself by the ass, never breaking the kiss.

"Mr. Wilson," Grayson croaks out. His face is bright red with embarrassment, his body tensed as if desperate for retreat.

"Quiet," Slade orders, and the boy immediate listens, cringing as the scene on the video heats up a bit.

On-Screen Grayson pulls back from the kiss for a moment and grins wickedly at his partner before sliding gracefully to his knees. The redhead lets him go, head thumping back against one of the metal support beams for the bleachers, and he certainly doesn't complain as Grayson quickly pulls down his gym shorts and underwear and then swallows him down in one quick movement.

It's hot as hell. Slade's watched it countless times by this point, and he stills feels himself start to tighten in his slacks at the sight.

It truly is a shame there's no microphone along with the camera, because Slade would _love_ to be able to hear the obscene noises that must've accompanied the blowjob they're watching. On-Screen Grayson looks wanton and debouched, going to town on Harper's cock like he wants nothing more than to right there, bare knees on the mud, head bobbing quickly up and down, deepthroating like it's _nothing._

In person, the teenage boy sitting across from him is a bright shade of red, absolutely mortified at having a moment such as this not only recorded, but viewed by his principal. This is absolutely something that could ruin his life, if it got out. _Slade_ could ruin his life. It would be so easy.

It's _intoxicating._

There's something else there, though. Slade tilts his head slightly, watching the boy watch the video. Grayson's humiliated, yes. Horrified, afraid, nauseous, guilty. All the things you'd expect to see in a scenario such as this. But when the boy shifts, drawing his legs together slightly, and when he drags in a breath, the sound hitching for a moment, Slade understands what else the boy is feeling.

Grayson, both on-screen and in-person, is _aroused._

Considering everything he knows about the kid, Slade can't say he's surprised that Grayson is apparently something of an exhibitionist.

But he keeps his expression even, not giving away the utter delight now coursing through him. His plan for this encounter hasn't changed in the slightest, but the idea that Grayson is already getting hard, already on edge, well. It adds a little something. It also gives Slade much more leverage.

On the video, Harper is thrusting his cock into Grayson's mouth, who has stopped sucking and is just taking it, hanging onto Harper's bare thighs. Soon enough, Harper's hips stutter, and he says something, tugging warningly on the kneeling man's hair. But the on-screen Grayson doesn't pull away, in fact he moves closer, and he swallows everything down when the redhead comes.

His mouth stays wrapped around Harper's cock for a few more seconds before he pulls off, brushing his hair out of his face.

Slade hits pause, the video freezing on an absolutely obscene image: Grayson on his knees, face flushed with lust and exertion, hair sticking up and sweaty, drops of cum still on his lips, and his cock hard and straining against his blue gym shorts.

The office around them is deadly silent. Grayson keeps his eyes resolutely on the TV screen, avoiding looking at Slade with all his might.

"Quite the show," Slade remarks after a moment.

Grayson makes a little choked sound, and if it were even possible, he turns an even brighter shade of red.

"I—Mr. Wilson, I'm—" Grayson cuts himself off, completely dumbfounded about what to say. What could one _possibly_ say in defense of this?

"You broke numerous school rules, Mr. Grayson," Slade tells him severely. "You even broke the _law_—that's called public indecency, and it could seriously impact your future."

The boy cringes, blue eyes flicking over to look at Slade and then quickly moving away again. "I—_fuck,_ I'm so sorry, this is—" He cuts himself off again, and then runs a hand through his hair in agitation.

"I understand boys your age have _needs,"_ Slade presses, enjoying the mortified look on Grayson's face, _and_ the way the boy attempts to subtly cross his legs as to hide his still-there erection. "But there are times and places for...experimentation, and none of that includes an open soccer field during school hours."

"Yes, Sir," Grayson mutters. He's staring very firmly at the ground as if wishing for it to swallow him whole. Slade decides he really likes the boy calling him _Sir._ "I'm—I'm sorry, Mr. Wilson. That's...it was wrong of us to do that, and it won't happen again."

"I believe you," Slade agrees. Grayson's baby blue eyes flick up hesitantly, looking up at the man through his eyelashes, and Slade feels himself harden further in his pants.

"You...do?"

Slade nods. He gets up, walking around the desk until he's next to the boy, then perches on the desk right in front of him. Grayson leans back in his seat in surprise, but they're still very close together, the chair the boy's sitting in too solid and heavy to move across the rug easily, keeping him in place.

"Yes, Richard," the principal says. "You're a good boy—" the kid twitches, hands clenching on the armrests, and Slade makes a mental note of it, "—and don't have any history of misbehavior. When you tell me you won't continue slutting around—" another twitch, slightly bigger this time, "—with Mr. Harper, I will take you at your word."

Grayson is holding himself very, _very_ still. "Th-thanks," he manages to get out, once more avoiding eye contact.

Slade examines his body language and his responses thus far, and decides to go ahead with his gamble.

The man reaches forward, taking a firm hold of Grayson's chin and then pulling his face upward to meet his gaze. The kid jerks in surprise, eyes wide as they lock onto Slade's, breath catching in his throat.

"Look me in the eye when I'm talking to you," Slade orders, his voice a low rumble.

"Yes, Sir," Grayson says again. He barely seems to be breathing, completely still. His hands are still clenched tightly onto the ends of the armrests, his legs still pressed together tightly enough that it must be painful on his erection. He makes no attempts to pull his face out of Slade's grasp, and when Slade tightens his grip just a bit more, the kid lets out a little gasp, then gets even brighter with embarrassment.

Slade contains his smirk.

"This could have far-reaching consequences," Slade reiterates. "If word got out about this, or if this video was actually _seen_ by anyone else, your entire future could be in jeopardy." He's probably laying it on a little thick, but the kid's already terrified, so it's not like it's _hard._ "You're a bright boy, Richard, and I would hate for behavior like this to get in the way of all you could be."

"It won't happen again," Grayson repeats, a little firmer than before, like he's trying to regain control of himself and the situation. "I promise."

"So you've said," Slade agrees, "and I said I believe you. However, this _is_ very inappropriate behavior, and cannot go unpunished. I think—" He lets his eye flick casually downward and then he cuts himself off dramatically, lips parting as if he's surprised.

Grayson follows his gaze, and when he sees what the principal has "just" spotted, he shrivels in on himself, looking like he's wishing for death.

"Mr. Wilson, I..." the kid begins, and his voice dies off quickly, unable to find words in the face of his utter mortification. How embarrassing this whole situation already has been for him, and now adding in his arousal being noticed? Dick Grayson is most certainly not having a good day.

"Richard," Slade says, pulling on his most disappointed voice, and drops his hand from the kid's chin. "You just promised to leave behavior such as that behind, but how can I possibly believe you when you're hard as a rock just _watching_ it?"

The boy stares up at him with wide eyes, and Slade waits to see what he'll do. Because the thing is, Grayson's not stupid, and he knows this isn't how a principal is supposed to talk to a student. Shouldn't use phrases like _slutting around_ or _hard as a rock_ in reference to an underage boy in his care. In fact any of this behavior could be grounds for Slade's removal.

But the kid's also extremely embarrassed, aroused, and terrified of the possible repercussions. He's not really thinking straight at the moment. And Slade's counting on the kid being off balance _just enough_ for this to go his way.

"I..." Grayson tries again, but still nothing comes to him. It shouldn't be possible for someone to be as red as he is, especially with his naturally tanned skin. His erection hasn't flagged, much to Slade's amusement and enjoyment, and to Grayson's utter horror.

"Does your father know how much of a slut his son is?" Slade asks, pushing the boundary a little further, and Grayson _gapes_ at him.

"Mr. Wilson!" the boy protests, but his voice is shaky. He shifts, crossing his legs a little more tightly.

"You will call me _Sir,"_ Slade orders severely, and the boy sucks in a sharp breath, a small shiver running through his body. Slade doesn't let his smirk show. "Am I understood?"

"Yes, Sir," Grayson says immediately, a tremor running through the words.

"Good boy," Slade praises. Grayson makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, and then cringes away, like he could somehow take back the noise. Slade ignores it—and the response it alights in him—for now. "Now I believe I asked you a question."

Grayson simply stares for a moment, like he's waiting for Slade to take it back, like the man really has just been playing one gigantic prank. But Slade doesn't move, doesn't give, just stares expectantly at his student.

"I...Sir, I don't think—"

"If I wanted backtalk," Slade interrupts coolly, "I'd ask for it. You're trying my patience, Mr. Grayson."

The kid shudders. "No, Sir," he finally croaks out, answering Slade's outrageous question. "Bruce is...not around often."

"Is that why you allow older boys to take advantage of you?" Slade asks, pressing. "Because daddy isn't around? Because you need a firm hand?"

Grayson whimpers, knuckles stark white. Slade's hard as a rock in his pants, and considering how his groin is easily in Grayson's line of sight, he's shocked the kid hasn't noticed yet.

"Yes," Slade says firmly, nodding, "I think that's exactly what you need. You need some control in your life, Richard. Someone to set you back on track. I will be that for you."

The kid's brow furrows, confused. "Sir? I don't understand."

"Stand," Slade orders, and Grayson only hesitates for a moment before he does as he's told. He looks wary now, but his erection hasn't flagged, his hands moving in front of his groin as if to cover it.

Slade allows his eye to roam up and down the kid's lean form under the guise of a critical gaze, and then nods sharply, as if he's coming to some difficult decision.

"Drop your pants," he commands.

Grayson stares at him. "Pardon?" he asks, voice breaking halfway through.

"Drop your pants," Slade repeats, slowly this time.

The kid's expression turns incredulous as he realizes that Slade really is not kidding. His jaw clenches stubbornly, his eyes narrow, and his chin raises in defiance. The rebellion is adorable, really. And Slade's looking forward to breaking it.

"Sir," Grayson says, voice the firmest it's been so far, "I don't think that's—"

Slade reaches out, grabbing ahold of Grayson's t-shirt and then yanking him quickly towards himself. Grayson stumbles, eyes wide, and reaches out to catch himself on the desk, but Slade doesn't give the kid the opportunity. He pulls the kid against himself and then places a large hand in the middle of his back before forcibly pushing him down, effectively bending the boy right over his lap, ass up in the air.

Grayson jerks in the hold, trying to get away, but Slade just pushes him further across his lap, forcing the kid up onto his tiptoes, barely supporting any of his own weight. It removes any leverage the boy might've had for escape, balancing precariously as he is, Slade keeping him pinned in place.

"Let me go!" Grayson shouts when he realizes he can't get up on his own. He strikes out with a fist, but all he can reach in his position is Slade's calves, and it does absolutely no damage.

Slade sighs, heavy and put-upon, and says, "Boy, you are trying my patience."

"You can't do this!" Grayson yells back. Then he sucks in a big breath, and Slade knows _exactly_ what he's about to do, but doesn't try to stop him. "Help!" the kid screams at the top of his lungs. Slade winces at the volume. "Help! Someone help!"

Silence follows the pleas, and Slade allows himself a smug smirk where the kid can't see; it's 5pm on a Friday, and the school is practically empty because of it, certainly the administrative wing. He told Amelia earlier that this would be his last appointment of the day, and she could leave as soon as Grayson arrived after his soccer practice. Which means there is—quite literally—no one to hear Grayson scream.

"Calm down," Slade orders. "Breathe."

Grayson writhes for a few moments, trying to escape again, which provides a bit of delightful friction so it's not like Slade is complaining much.

"Breathe," Slade says again, tone brokering no argument, and Grayson shivers on his lap, his struggling dying down, taking a few deep, slow breaths.

When his breathing is even again, his body calm, Slade praises, "Good boy," and Grayson makes that soft sound at the back of his throat again.

"What are you doing?" the kid asks shakily.

"What are you supposed to call me?" Slade reminds him, tone sharp, and Grayson flinches.

"Sir," Grayson rushes to add. "What are you—what are you doing, _Sir?"_

"Frankly, Mr. Grayson," Slade tells him solemnly, "what you and Mr. Harper did is grounds for expulsion."

He waits, and is not disappointed.

Grayson jolts on his lap, head jerking up, attempting to crane his neck to look at Slade and not quite managing it. It's kind of adorable. "No! No, I can't get expelled. Sir, please—"

Slade shushes him, rubbing a soothing hand up and down the kid's back, enjoying his panic for a moment, enjoying the way his wiggling pushes his ass further up in the air.

"And I don't want to expel you, Richard. Like I said, you're a bright boy with a bright future ahead of you; I would hate for something like this to get out and ruin that for you." He pauses for a moment, just long enough to allow that to sink in, and then continues. "But you do still need to be punished for your behavior."

"I—yes, Sir," Grayson agrees, body wound tight, and Slade can practically _hear_ his mind racing as he tries to figure out what the fuck is going on. "But why are you...?"

Even after everything that's happened the last fifteen minutes, the kid can't finish the sentence. Slade suppresses a chuckle.

"You need a firm hand, boy," Slade says, reminding him of their earlier conversation. "Your daddy—" Grayson twitches as the word, "—has been slacking in his duties, and as your indiscretions have happened during school hours, it falls to me to discipline you."

He can see Grayson open his mouth, but what he has to say doesn't much matter, so Slade uses his free hand—the one not keeping Grayson in place by pressing on his back—to reach under the boy and undo his button and zipper. Grayson gasps in shock, but Slade doesn't stop there, yanking the boy's pants and underwear down his thighs, revealing the swell of his ass.

And _oh,_ what an ass it is. Slade rubs his hand over it admiringly, squeezing and stroking the cheeks, the skin pinking slightly under the attention. Grayson's breath is hitching, coming in sharp little pants, and he chokes on air when Slade drops his hand lower to run over his balls and his hard cock.

Slade tuts as if disappointed. "You can't control yourself at all, can you? Little slut."

Grayson splutters, his embarrassment coming back full force. "Mr. Wilson—"

Slade draws his hand away and then brings his palm down against Grayson's ass _hard._ The kid yelps and jerks forward, eyes going wide and arms scrambling for purchase.

"Don't make me remind you again about the proper form of address."

"Sir!" Grayson squeaks out. _"Sir._ I don't—"

Slade brings his hand down again. Grayson shouts and jerks again, his tiptoes lifting off the ground this time, solely supported by Slade's hold on him.

"You need to be punished, Mr. Grayson," Slade tells him. "I think twenty-five is an acceptable number for your inappropriate behavior, wouldn't you agree?"

_"What?"_ Grayson asks incredulously. "You can't be s—"

Another slap. The kid cries out, and Slade admires the way the flesh of his ass is now darkening. He's taken with the idea of hitting until his ass is mottled with bruises. The boy's so pretty; the urge to mark him up is strong.

"Would you rather the expulsion?" Slade asks lightly, and Grayson doesn't say anything, squeezing his eyes shut. Slade smiles, taking that for the acceptance it is. "You will keep track of the strikes, Richard. If you miss the count for one, it will happen again. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," Grayson mutters, hanging his head.

"Good," Slade says, and then they begin.

Slade has to admit—at least to himself—that having a fit, beautiful sixteen-year-old boy squirming across his lap gets him harder than he has been in a long while. Especially when paired with the breathy little cut-off groans Grayson makes with each strike, the way his voice trembles around the numbers as he does as he's instructed and counts the blows.

And when tears start to flow from the boy's eyes, his whole body shaking with held-back sobs, Slade almost comes in his pants.

He doesn't hold back, either, not softening his blows or lessening his considerable strength as he brings his hand down over and over again against Grayson's plush ass. The flesh is bright red, and already he can see bruises starting to form, can see the vague imprint of his hand that is sure to stay for a while. It brings a grin to his face, and he purposefully hits over the worst spot of darkening blue, making the teenager scream, almost missing the number.

It ends far too soon, Grayson sobbing out _twenty-five_ in something like supreme relief and slumping boneless across Slade's lap.

Slade rubs a hand over the boy's ass, just _slightly_ pressing, and Grayson keens, trying to push forward away from the touch on his oversensitive skin.

Yeah, Slade thinks with pleasure; it's going to hurt the kid to sit for a long time.

"Have you learned your lesson?" he asks sternly, applying pressure to the bright red hand print, and the sound Grayson makes in response to the pain is pitiful and hot and makes Slade want so much more.

"Yes, Sir," Grayson gets out, voice thick. "Yes, I..." He lets his voice trail off.

"You did well," Slade praises, just to see the kid's reaction, and Grayson whimpers, hips jerking. A slow smile spreads across Slade's face, and he lets his hand slide off of the kid's ass, down towards his cock and balls.

Grayson lets out a little shout at the sudden contact. He's gone a little soft during the abuse, but not completely, and it isn't a challenge to stroke him right back up. Grayson makes a sound of protest, wiggling like he's trying to get away, but it's the easiest thing in the world to keep him pinned.

"You dirty boy," Slade mocks. "This was supposed to be a punishment, and yet you're hard as a rock." Well, _now_ he is, but it isn't like the kid's in a mindset to really argue with him all that much.

"N-no, I..."

In a sudden motion, Slade pushes himself to his feet. The motion sends Grayson to the ground with a yelp, or _would_ if Slade didn't catch him immediately, spinning them around so that the boy is resting on his back on the desk, ass on the edge and Slade standing between his legs.

The boy screams as the sharp movement puts a large amount of pressure on his abused ass, and he arches off the desk in an attempt to protect himself. Slade pulls him just a little bit closer to himself, just enough for his ass to hang off the edge of the desk and get rid of the worst of the pain—for now.

Grayson looks up at Slade, face puffy and red and tear-streaked, and Slade doesn't think the boy has ever been as beautiful as he is in this moment, looking bare inches away from completely destroyed. He's shaking faintly, his breath hitching with repressed sobs. It's gorgeous, and Slade wants _more._

"What am I supposed to do with you Mr. Grayson?" Slade says on a sigh, shaking his head in disappointment. "You can't behave, clearly don't listen to instruction—maybe expulsion really _is_ the only thing to be done here."

The effect is immediate, as he knew it would be.

"No!" Grayson calls out, panic clear on his face, pain apparently forgotten for the moment. "No, _please,_ Sir, I can't get expelled, I can't—"

"I don't know what else to do with you," Slade tells him. "How can I _possibly_ trust you when you show time and time again that you're incapable of doing as you're told—"

"I can do as I'm told," Grayson rushes to say, something desperate in his eyes. "I can, Sir, I _swear_ I can, please don't expel me, just let me prove it to you. Let me prove it, _please."_

Slade contains his smile. Sometimes, it's simply too easy.

"Alright," the principal says, in a tone of someone granting a big favor. Grayson slumps slightly, relief running through him. "I will allow you to show me that you can behave." He sends him a hard look. "But if you ignore an order, if you prove you really _can't_ do as you're told, then you are going to be leaving this school and not returning. Mr. Harper as well."

Panic flares again in Grayson's eyes at the mention of his friend, an added weight to this deal, a bonus likely to make sure he obeys if his desperation for himself isn't enough for what Slade has in mind.

"Yes, Sir," Grayson says. Something determined settles into his gaze, but it barely cuts through the pretty picture he makes, so vulnerable and soft and innocent. No doubt this boy could be quite the force to be reckoned with, but right now he's nothing more than a scared, abused child, and Slade has absolutely no problem pushing that to his advantage.

"Good," Slade praises, and Grayson makes that same soft sound that he made before, cock still hard and obvious.

Slade reaches out, stroking his hand lightly up the boy's side, pushing the shirt up and revealing more golden skin. Grayson's breath hitches, and he starts to relax under the gentle touch. Slade reaches further, brushing Grayson's cheek and then stroking through his black hair. The boy's eyelids flutter, a soft sigh passing his lips.

That's when Slade wraps a rough hand around Grayson's cock, jerking. The boy's eyes fly right back open and he gapes up at Slade in shock. Slade twists his wrist and Grayson moans.

"You really are such a dirty little boy," Slade chastises.

"Sir—" Grayson gasps.

Slade digs the fingers of his other hand into the flesh of the boy's ass, and the boy howls with pain, arching off the table in an attempt to escape the pain. All it does is push him further up into Slade's grip on his cock, and Grayson mewls at the conflicting sensations, pleasure and pain.

"You want to prove you can do as you're told, yes?" Slade asks casually, swiping his finger over the head of the boy's cock, raking his nails over the bruises on his ass. The boy wails. "Prove that you're trustworthy? Keep yourself and Mr. Harper enrolled at this institution?"

Grayson writhes on the table, his tear-streaked face scrunched up with pain. "Sir, please—"

"Be still," Slade commands, and the kid freezes automatically. "Good boy." Grayson shivers, and then his face heats up, embarrassed by his reaction. It reminds Slade of earlier, Grayson watching the video tape of himself, utterly mortified but also severely turned on.

Slade rubs a hand soothingly over his ass, but the boy keens, even that slow touch painful on his abused skin. Slade circles Grayson's asshole with his finger and then pushes it in dry, all the way to the knuckle.

Grayson cries out, body pushing in an attempt to escape. He looks up at Slade with wide, panicked eyes, and it's hot as fuck. "Why are you—"

"If you're desperate enough to be sucking cock under the bleachers after soccer practice, then I don't see how that desperation could be any less now."

Grayson bristles and gets even redder. "I—"

"Mr. Grayson, need I repeat the rules to you?" Slade asks harshly. He starts to pump his finger in and out forcefully, making the boy cry out again. "You're attempting to prove you can do as you're told. You're attempting to keep yourself from being expelled. Or would you rather be? It makes absolutely no difference to me, but we both know the truth about you."

The boy stares up at him in shock, as if it's just now hitting him that he's really in his principal's office with his pants around his ankles, shirt pushed up to his neck, cock hard, a man three times his age standing between his thighs, and a finger in his ass.

It's quite the sight.

"The...truth?" he asks faintly.

"You're a slut, Richard," Slade tells him breezily. The kid's eyes practically pop out of his skull, and then they squeeze shut as Slade inserts another finger. "You suck off older boys in locations where you could be easily spotted by anyone passing by, and then get hard watching a video of such an encounter in front of your principal. You then get even harder during a punishment given out, and here you still are, _hard_ spread out before me."

Slade crooks his fingers, searching, and knows he found what he was looking for when Grayson moans, throwing back his head. "The only reason you're here at all is because you're a _whore,_ and you have no self-control. Which mean that _I_ will be acting as your control."

Grayson pants up at him, his expression twisting into something outraged and terribly embarrassed, but Slade can also see how hard the boy is, leaking precum already.

It's a wonder someone hasn't already taken advantage of the clear authority issues this kid has, when paired with his desperation for praise and apparent arousal linked to being humiliated. He's practically _begging_ for an older man to do whatever they want with him. Slade could probably get him to say _thank you_ at the end of all of this.

And, if Slade plays his cards right, he might even get a repeat performance.

"Sir—" Grayson begins in what he's sure is supposed to be an affronted tone, but Slade doesn't care to hear it. He drags his fingers over the boy's prostate again, and Grayson mewls, clawing at the desk.

"Now, are you going to behave, Mr. Grayson, or shall I start the expulsion process?"

For a few moments, the boy simply pants up at him. His hair is damp with sweat now, plastered to his forehead. His blue eyes, pupils blown wide, are locked onto Slade's. That delightful flush has spread all the way down his neck.

Then Grayson closes his eyes and tilts his head back submissively. Slade's cock pulses in his slacks. "Yes, Sir."

"Good slut," Slade mock-praises, and Grayson sucks in a sharp breath, shoulders tensing, but doesn't say anything.

"Now," Slade says, pulling his fingers out of Grayson's ass and reaching for the lube in his inside jacket pocket, "why don't we see just how good you can be?"

**Author's Note:**

> SladeRobin Week is almost over, my friends! Only one more day after this...


End file.
